Arthur O'Leary: His Wanderings And Ponderings In Many Lands

‘At length I arose, and passing through the door entered the priest’s house, where Lydchen, dressed in hat and mantle, stood ready for the road. As I endeavoured to remonstrate she pressed her hand on my mouth, and walking on tiptoe led me forward; we emerged into a little garden, crossing which she opened a wicket that led into the road. There a peasant was in waiting, who carried a small bundle on his shoulder, and was armed with the long staff used in mountain travelling. Again, making a sign for me to be silent, she moved on before me, and soon turning off the road entered a foot-track in the mountain. The fresh breeze of the night and the sense of liberty nerved me to exertion, and I walked on till day was breaking. Our path generally lay in a descending direction, and I felt little fatigue, when at sunrise Lydchen told me that we might rest for some hours, as our guide could now detect the approach of any party for miles round, and provide for our concealment. No pursuit, however, was undertaken in that direction, the peasants in all likelihood deeming that I would turn my steps towards Lahn, where a strong French garrison was stationed; whereas we were proceeding in the direction of Saltzbourg, the very longest and therefore the least likely route through the Tyrol.

‘Day succeeded day, and on we went. Not one living thing did we meet on our lonely path. Already our little stock of provisions was falling low, when we came in sight of the hamlet of Altendorf, only a single day’s march from the lake of Saltzbourg. The village, though high in the mountain, lay exactly beneath us as we went, and from the height we stood on we could see the little streets of the town and its market-place like a map below us. Scarcely had the guide thrown his eyes downwards than he stopped short, and pointing to the town, cried out “The French! the French!” and true enough, a large party of infantry were bivouacked in the streets, and several horses were picketed in the gardens about. While the peasant crept cautiously forward to inspect the place nearer, I stood beside Lydchen, who, with her hands pressed closely on her face, spoke not a word.

‘“We part here!” said she, with a strong, full accent, as though determined to let no weakness appear in her words.

‘“Part, Lydchen!” cried I, in an agony; for up to that moment I believed that she never intended returning to the Tyrol.

‘“Yes. Thinkest thou that I hold so light my home and country as thou dost? Didst thou believe that a Tyrol girl would live ‘midst those who laid waste her Fatherland, and left herself an orphan, without one of her kindred remaining?”

‘“Are there no ties save those of blood, Lydchen? Is your heart so steeled against the stranger that the devotion, the worship, of a life long would not move you from your purpose?”

‘“Thou hast refused me once,” said she proudly; “I offered to be all your own when thou couldst have made me so with honour. If thou wert the Kaiser Franz, I would not have thee now.”

‘“Oh, speak not thus, Lydchen, to him whose life you saved, and made him feel that life is a blessing! Remember that if your heart be cold to me, you have made mine your own for ever. I will not leave you. No – ”

‘“Is it that thou mayst bring me yonder and show me amongst thy comrades – the Tyrol maiden that thou hast captured, thy spoil of war?”

‘“Oh, Lydchen, dearest, why will you speak thus – ”

‘“Never!” cried she, as her eyes flashed proudly, and her cheek flushed red, “never! I have the blood of Hofer in my veins; and bethinkest thou I would stoop to be a jest, a mockery, before thy high-born dames, who would not deem me fit to be their waiting-woman? Farewell, sir. I hoped to part with thee less in anger than in sorrow.”

‘“Then I will remain,” said I.

‘“Too late, too late!” cried she, waving her hand mournfully; “the hour is past. See, there come your troops; a moment more, and I shall be taken. You wish not this, at least – ”

‘As she spoke, a cavalry detachment was seen coming up the valley at a canter. A few minutes more and she would be discovered. I knew too well the ruffian natures of the soldiery to hazard such a risk. I caught her to my arms with one last embrace, and the next moment dashed down the path towards the dragoons. I turned my head once, but she was gone; the peasant guide had left the breach of the chasm, and they both were lost to my view.

‘My story is now soon told. I was tried by a court-martial, honourably acquitted, and restored to my grade —en retraite, however, for my wound had disabled me from active service. For three years I lived in retirement near Mayence, the sad memory of one unhappy event embittering every hour of my life.

‘In the early part of 1809 a strong division of the French army, commanded by my old friend and companion Lefebvre, entered Mayence, on their way to Austria; and as my health was now restored, I yielded to his persuasion to join his staff as first aide-de-camp. Indeed, a carelessness and indifference to my fortune had made me submit to anything, and I assented to every arrangement of the general, as if I were totally unconcerned in it all. I need not trace the events of that rapid and brilliant campaign. I will only remark that Eckmühl and Ratisbon both brought back all the soldier’s ardour to my heart; and once more the crash of battle, and the din of marching columns, aroused my dormant enthusiasm.

‘In the month of April, a corps d’armée of twenty thousand men entered the Tyrol, and pushed forward to the Niederwald, where Lefebvre had his headquarters. I cannot stay to speak of the terrible scenes of that period, the most fearful in the spirit of resistance that ever our arms encountered. Detachments were cut off every day; whole columns disappeared, and never again were heard of; no bivouac was safe from a nightly attack, and even the sentinels at the gates of Innspruck were repeatedly found dead on their posts. But, worse than all, daily instances occurred of assassination by peasants, who sometimes dressed as sutlers entered the camp, and took the opportunity to stab or shoot our officers, caring nothing, as it seemed, for the certain death that awaited them. These became of such frequent occurrence that scarce a report did not contain one or two such casualties, and consequently every precaution that could be thought of was adopted; and every peasant taken with arms – in a country, too, where none are unarmed – was shot without trial of any kind whatever. That little mercy, or indeed justice, was meted out to the people, I need only say that Girardon was commandant of the garrison, and daily inspected the executions on parade.

‘It happened that one morning this savage old officer was stabbed by an Austrian peasant, who had long been employed as a camp servant and trusted in situations of considerable confidence. The man was immediately led out for execution to the Platz, where was another prisoner, – a poor boy found rambling within the lines, and unable to give any account of his presence there. Girardon, however, was only slightly wounded, and countermanded the the execution of his assassin, not from motives of forgiveness, but in order to defer it till he was himself able to be present and witness it. And upon me, as next in command, devolved the melancholy duty of being present on the parade. The brief note I received from Girardon, reminded me of a former instance of weakness on my part, and contained a sneering hope that I ‘had learned some portion of a soldier’s duty, since I was reduced to the ranks at Strasbourg.’

“When I reached the Platz, I found the officers of the Staff in the middle of the square, where a table was placed, on which the order for the execution was lying, awaiting my signature.

“‘The prisoner begs a word with the officer in command,’ said the orderly serjeant.

“‘I cannot accede to his request.’ said I, trembling from head to foot, and knowing how totally such an interview would unman me.

“‘He implores it, sir, with the utmost earnestness, and says he has some important secret to reveal before his death.’

“‘The old story – anything for five minutes more of life and sun-shine,’ said an officer beside me.

“‘I must refuse.’ said I, ‘and desire that these requests may not be brought before me.’

“‘It is the only way, Colonel.’ said another; ‘and indeed such intervals have little mercy in them; both parties suffer the more from them.’

“This speech seemed to warrant my selfish determination, and I seized the pen, and wrote my name to the order; and then handing it to the officer, covered my face with my hands, and sat with my head leaning on the table.

“A bustle in front, and a wild cry of agony, told me that the preparations were begun, and quick as lightning, the roar of a platoon fire followed. A shriek, shrill and piercing, mingled with the crash, and then came a cry from the soldiers, ‘It is a woman!’

“‘With madness in my brain, and a vague dread – I know not of what – I dashed forward through the crowd, and there, on the pavement, weltering in her blood, lay the body of Lydchen: she was stone dead, her bosom shattered by a dozen bullets.

“I fell upon the corpse, the blood poured from my mouth in torrents; and when I arose, it was with a broken heart, whose sufferings are bringing me to the grave.”

This sad story I have related without any endeavour to convey to my reader, either the tone of him who told it, or the dreadful conflict of feeling, which at many times prevented his continuing. In some few places the very words he made use of were those I have employed, since they have remained fast rooted in my memory, and were associated with the facts themselves. Except in these slight particulars, I have told the tale as it lives in my recollection, coupled with one of the saddest nights I ever remember.

It was near morning when he concluded, tired and exhausted, yet to all appearance calmer and more tranquil from the free current of that sorrow he could not longer control.

“Leave me now,” said he, “for a few hours; my servant shall call you before I go.”

It was to no purpose that I offered to accompany him, alleging – as with an easy conscience I could do – that no one was less bound by any ties of place or time. He refused my offer of companionship, by saying, that strict solitude alone restored him after one of his attacks, and that the least excitement invariably brought on a relapse. “We shall soon meet again, I hope,” was the extent of promise I could obtain from him; and I saw that to press the matter further was both unfair and indelicate.

Though I lay down in bed I could not sleep; a strange feeling of dread, an anxious fear of something undefined, was over me; and at every noise I arose and looked out of the window, and down the streets, which were all still and silent. The terrible events of the tale were like a nightmare on my mind, and I could not dismiss them. At last I fell into a half slumber, from which I was awakened by the Baron’s servant. His master was dangerously ill; another attack had seized him, and he was lying senseless. I hastened to the room, where I found the sick man stretched half dressed upon the bed, his face purple, and his eyeballs strained to bursting; his breathing was heavy, and broken by a low, tremulous quaver, that made each respiration like a half-suppressed sigh. While I opened the window to give him air, and bathed his forehead with cold water, I dispatched a servant for a doctor.

The physician was soon beside me; but I quickly saw that the case was almost hopeless. His former disease had developed a new and, if possible, worse one – aneurism of the heart.

I will not speak of the hourly vacillations of hope and fear in which I passed that day and the following one. He had never regained consciousness; but the most threatening symptoms had considerably abated, and, in the physician’s eyes, he was better. On the afternoon of the third day, as I sat beside his bed, sleep overtook me in my watching, and I awoke feeling a hand within my own: it was Elgenheim’s.

Overjoyed at this sign of returning health, I asked him how he felt. A faint sigh, and a motion of his hand towards his side, was all his reply. Not daring to speak more, I drew the curtain, and sat still and silent at his side. The window, by the physician’s order, was left open, and a gentle breeze stirred the curtains lightly, and gave a refreshing air within the apartment. A noise of feet, and a hurried movement in the street, induced me to look out, and I now saw the head of an infantry battalion turning into the Platz. They marched in slow time, and with arms reversed. With a throb of horror, I remembered the deserter! Yes, there he was! He marched between two dismounted gendarmes, without coat or cap; a broad placard fixed on his breast, inscribed with his name and his crime. I turned instantly towards the bed, dreading lest already the tramp of the marching men had reached the sick man’s ear, but he was sleeping calmly, and breathing without effort of any kind.

The thought seized me, to speak to the officer in command of the party, and I rushed down, and making my way through the crowd, approached the staff, as they were standing in the middle of the Platz. But my excited manner, my look of wild anxiety, and my little knowledge of the language, combined to make my appeal of little moment.

“If it be true, sir,” said a gruff old veteran, with a grisly beard, “that he was an Officer of the Empire, the fire of a platoon can scarcely hurt his nerves.”

“Yes, but,” said I, “there is a circumstance of his life which makes this ten-fold more dangerous – I cannot explain it – I am not at liberty – ”

“I do not desire to learn your secrets, sir,” replied the old man rudely; “stand back, and suffer me to do my duty.”

I turned to the others, but they could give me neither advice nor assistance, and already the square was lined with soldiers, and the men of the “death party” were ordered to stand out.

“Give me at least time enough to move my friend to a distant chamber, if you will not do more,” said I, driven to madness; but no attention was paid to my words, and the muster roll continued to be read out.

I rushed back to the inn, and up the stairs; but what was my horror to hear the sound of voices, and the tramp of feet, in the sick room I had left in silence. As I entered, I saw the landlord and the servant, assisted by the doctor, endeavouring to hold down the Baron on his bed, who with almost superhuman strength, pushed them from him in his efforts to rise. His features were wild to insanity, and the restless darting of his glistening eye, showed that he was under the excitement of delirium.

“The effort may kill him,” whispered the doctor in my ear; “this struggle may be his death.”

“Leave me free, sir!” shouted the sick man. “Who dares to lay hands on me – stand aside there – the peloton will take ground to the right,” continued he, raising his voice as if commanding on parade; “Ground arms!”

Just at this instant, the heavy clank of the firelocks was heard without, as though in obedience to his word. “Hark!” said he, raising his hand – “Not a word – silence in the ranks.” And in the deadly stillness we could now hear the sentence of death, as it was read aloud by the Adjutant. A hoarse roll of the drum followed, and then, the tramp of the party as they led forward the prisoner, to every step of which the sick man kept time with his hand.

We did not dare to move – we knew not at what instant our resistance might be his death.

“Shoulder arms!” shouted out the officer from the Platz.

“Take the orders from me,” cried Elgenheim wildly. “This duty is mine – no man shall say I shrunk from it.”

“Present arms – Fire – ”

“Fire!” shouted Elgenheim, with a yell that rose above the roll of musketry; and then with a groan of agony, he cried out, “There – there – it’s over now!” and fell back, dead, into our arms.

***** *****

Thus died the leader of the stormers at Elchingen, – the man who carried the Hill of Asperne against an Austrian battery. He sleeps now in the little churchyard of the “Marien Hülfe” at Cassel.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE WARTBURG AND EISENACH

I left Cassel with a heart far heavier than I had brought into it some weeks before. The poor fellow, whose remains I followed to the grave, was ever in my thoughts, and all our pleasant rambles and our familiar intercourse, were now shadowed over by the gloom of his sad destiny. So must it ever be. He who seeks the happiness of his life upon the world’s highways, must learn to carry, as best he may, the weary load of trouble that “flesh is heir to.” There must be storm for sunshine; and for the bright days and warm airs of summer, he must feel the lowering skies and cutting winds of winter.

I set out on foot, muttering as I went, the lines of poor Marguerite’s song, which my own depression had brought to memory.

“Mein Ruh ist hin. Mein Hers ist schwer;Ich finde sie nimmer – und, nimmer mehr.”

The words recalled the Faust – the Faust, the Brocken, and so I thought I could not do better than set out thither. I was already within three days’ march of the Hartz, and besides, I should like to see Göttingen once more, and have a peep at my old friends there.

It was only as I reached Münden to breakfast, that I remembered it was Sunday, and so when I had finished my meal, I joined my host and his household to church. What a simplicity is there in the whole Protestantism of Germany – how striking is the contrast between the unpretending features of the Reformed, and the gorgeous splendour of the Roman Catholic Church. The benches of oak, on which were seated the congregation, made no distinctions of class and rank. The little village authorities were mingled with the mere peasants – the Pastor’s family sat nearest to the reading-desk – that, was the only place distinguished from the others. The building, like most of its era, was plain and un-ornamented – some passages from Scripture were written on the walls, in different places, but these were its only decoration. As I sat, awaiting the commencement of the service, I could not avoid being struck by the marked difference of feature, observable in Protestant, from what we see in Roman Catholic communities – not depending upon nationality, for Germany itself is an illustration in point. The gorgeous ceremonial of the Romish Church – its venerable architecture – its prestige of antiquity – its pealing organ, and its incense – all contribute to a certain exaltation of mind, a fervour of sentiment, that may readily be mistaken for true religious feeling. These things, connected and bound up with the most awful and impressive thoughts the mind of man is capable of, cannot fail to impress upon the features of the worshippers, an expression of profound, heartfelt adoration, which poetizes the most commonplace, and elevates the tone of even the most vulgar faces. Retsch had not to go far for those figures of intense devotional character his works abound in – every chapel contained innumerable studies for his pencil. The features of the Protestant worshippers were calm, even to sternness – the eyes, not bent upon some great picture, or some holy relic, with wondering admiration, were downcast in meditation deep, or raised to heaven with thoughts already there. There was a holy and a solemn awe in every face, as though in the presence of Him, and in His Temple, the passions and warm feelings of man were an unclean offering; that to understand His truths, and to apply His counsels, a pure heart and a clear understanding were necessary – and these they brought. To look on their cold and stedfast faces, you would say that Luther’s own spirit – his very temperament, had descended to his followers. There was the same energy of character – the indomitable courage – the perseverance, no obstacle could thwart – the determination, no opposition could shake. The massive head, square and strong – the broad, bold forehead – the full eye – the wide nostril, and the thick lip – at once the indication of energy, of passion, and of power, are seen throughout Saxony as the types of national features.

The service of the Lutheran church is most simple, and like that of our Presbyterians at home, consists in a hymn, a portion of Scripture read out, and – what is considered the greatest point of all – a sermon, half prayer, half dissertation, which concludes the whole. Even when the Pastors are eloquent men, which they rarely are, I doubt much if German be a language well suited for pulpit oratory. There is an eternal involution of phrase, a complexity in the expression of even simple matters, which would for ever prevent those bold imaginative flights by which Bossuet and Massillon appealed to the hearts and minds of their hearers. Were a German to attempt this, his mysticism – the “maladie du pays” – would at once interfere, and render him unintelligible. The pulpit eloquence of Germany, so far as I have experience of it, more closely resembles the style of the preachers of the seventeenth century, when familiar illustrations were employed to convey such truths as rose above the humble level of ordinary intellects; having much of the grotesque quaintness our own Latimer possessed, without, unhappily, the warm glow of his rich imagination, or the brilliant splendour of his descriptive talent. Still the forcible earnestness, and the strong energy of conviction, are to be found in the German pulpit, and these also may be the heirlooms of “the Doctor.” as the Saxons love to call the great reformer.

Some thoughts like these suggested a visit to the Wartburg, the scene of Luther’s captivity – for such, although devised with friendly intent, his residence there was; and so abandoning the Brocken, for the “nonce,” I started for Eisenach.

As you approach the town of Eisenach – for I’m not going to weary you with the whole road, – you come upon a little glen in the forest, the “Thuringer Wald,” where the road is completely overshadowed, and even at noonday, is almost like night. A little well, bubbling in a basin of rock, stands at the road-side, where an iron ladle, chained to the stone, and a rude bench, proclaim that so much of thought has been bestowed on the wayfarer. As you rest from the heat and fatigue of the day, upon that humble seat, you may not know that Martin Luther himself sat on that very bench, tired and wayworn, as he came back from Worms, where, braving the power of king and kaiser, he had gone manfully to defend his opinions, and assert the doctrines of the Reformation.

It was there he lay down to sleep – a sleep I would dare to say; not the less tranquil, because the excommunication of Rome had been fulminated over his head. He was alone. He had refused every offer of companionship, which zeal for the cause and personal friendship had prompted, when suddenly he was aroused by the tramp of armed men, and the heavy clattering of horses, coming up the glen. He knew his life was sought for by his enemies, and what a grateful deed his assassination would be to record within the halls of many a kingly palace. In an instant, he was on his legs, and grasping his trusty broad-sword, he awaited the attack. Not too soon, however, for scarcely had the horsemen come within sight, than, putting spurs to their steeds, they bore down upon him; then checking their horses suddenly, the leader called aloud to him, to surrender himself his prisoner.

Good Martin’s reply was a stroke of his broad-sword that brought the summoner from his saddle to the ground. Parley was at an end now, and they rushed on him at once. Still, it was clear that their wish was not to kill him, which from their numbers and superior equipment, could not have been difficult. But Luther’s love of liberty was as great as his love of life, and he laid about him like one who would sell either as dearly as he could. At length, pressed by his enemies on every side, his sword broke near the hut, he threw the useless fragment from his hand, and called out, “Ich kann nicht mehr!” – “I can do no more!”

He was now bound with cords, and his eyes bandaged, conveyed to the castle of the Wartburg, about two miles distant, nor did he know for several days after, that the whole was a device of his friend and protector, the Elector of Saxony, who wished to give currency to the story, that Luther’s capture was a real one, and the Wartburg his prison, and not, as it really proved, his asylum. Here he spent nearly a year, occupied in the translation of the Bible, and occasionally preaching in the small chapel of the “Schloss.” His strange fancies of combats with the evil one, are among the traditions of the place, and the torn plaster of the wall is pointed out as the spot where he hurled his inkstand at the fiend, who tormented him in the shape of a large blue-bottle fly.